Anthem
by DictionGoddess
Summary: He is alive, but dead in every way that counts.
1. Disclaimer and Prologue

DISCLAIMER: PLEASE READ BEFORE CONTINUING WITH THE STORY  
  
I have read one HP fic in my entire life. I can safely say this story is quite unlike it. However, there are thousands I have no knowledge of. If this bears any resemblance to another story, I profoundly apologize. Just mention it in a review, and I'll delete the story immediately. This was written for a friend, as a Christmas gift. Let's just say it took me awhile. It is not my normal genre, so keep that in mind if you choose to read this. Once again, I do not read HP fic, so any resemblance is completely unintentional. And I hope someone enjoys it besides my friend. Merry Christmas, dude. You know who you are.  
  
Songs in parts 1-6 are not mine. The lyrics inspired me. Thanks to Natalie Merchant, Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice (Michael Ball), Lisa Germano, The Cowboy Junkies, Jonathan Larson (Adam Pascal), and Jonatha Brooke for their wonderful songs (or wonderful versions of songs) that helped me write this. I don't own any of it, I don't profit from any of it. J.K. Rowling, you have no need to worry—I'll never make money off of this.  
  
Anthem By novocaine  
  
Prologue: He Didn't Have To Be  
  
It is on a cold night in December when he faces the Dark Lord for the last time. The battle is long and fierce, and many perish in the fight. The details are incomplete, as not everyone can recall everything they saw. However, the outcome is easy to relay—Harry Potter lives. The reason for his victory is important, as is the aftermath, but the details will come. The story must be told from the beginning. 


	2. My Skin

Part One: My Skin  
  
I've been treated so long/I've been treated so wrong/as if I'm becoming untouchable  
  
Harry Potter was quite sure that he could never tell his friends about his destiny. He could imagine the scene in his mind. A quiet tea at Hagrid's hut at the beginning of sixth year, Ron and Hermione shooting each other longing glances while exchanging witty barbs about their study habits while Hagrid guffaws loudly. He'd set down his cup loudly, and all three would turn to look at him.  
  
"I'm either going to be a murderer or a victim," he'll say casually. "It's my fate. So I very well may be dead by next year. Carry on."  
  
They'll stare in shock; he'll take another sip of tea before he asks after Grawp's well being. It's satisfying to think of, for some unknown reason. Possibly because he knows he'll never utter those words, instead choosing to suffer his fate in silence in a lame attempt to spare his loved ones more grief. He's already caused enough pain and destruction for a lifetime. It would be best to stay away now.  
  
Perhaps he'll go with alternate methods of avoidance. If he talks with Ron and Hermione, he can make them realize how perfect they are for each other. They'll become a couple, and spend so much time on their relationship that they'll forget about him for a while. There'd been a period of time when he envisioned himself married to Hermione, when he was young and delusions of grandeur still existed. He figured that his parents had been head boy and girl, and that he would go the same route with his friend. His unexpected affection for Cho Chang put Hermione out of his thoughts. He believes this is beneficial for them both.  
  
He doubts that Hermione will see it that way, when the time comes, but surely that is the least of his worries. He has quite a schedule: classes to attend, exams to take, dark lords to kill.  
  
It is definitely in everyone's best interest if he keeps to himself awhile, he thinks. 


	3. Gethsemene

Part Two: Gethsemane  
  
Then/I was inspired/now/I'm sad and tired  
  
It seems clear to him now that avoiding Ron and Hermione was the worst course of action possible. He had hoped (though he never dared to admit it) that they would come running to him, begging for his attention and affections, and guess what the problem was until Ron blurts out the answer as a last resort, and his shoulders sag as he gives a slight nod.  
  
Things never seem to work out in reality as well as they do in your head.  
  
Instead, his two best friends keep the distance he had once been desperate to create, conversing with carefully measured sentences like "What did you think of Professor McGonagall's lesson today?" and "I can't stand the weather. It's simply dreadful." He answers similarly or offers a question of his own, and they manage to keep the conversations this way for nearly two weeks. It is, of course, Hermione who breaks the wall and she does so quite efficiently.  
  
"We're here for you Harry. You know that, right? No matter what," she says as she positions herself on his left-hand side on a couch in the common room one balmy evening. She then jerks her head sharply to the right, causing Ron to shuffle from his chair by the window to sit on the other side.  
  
"She's got a point, you see. There's nothing you could say to scare us off now. If Fluffy wasn't enough to keep us away from you..." Ron gives him an awkward but well-meaning smile as Hermione gives his knee a gentle squeeze. As sick of the lying as he is, he can't form the words necessary to be honest.  
  
"I know. Thanks." He gives them his best reassuring grin, and they sit there silent.  
  
That night he wonders how he came to his current situation. How noble the fight against Voldemort seemed to his eleven year-old mind! At that point there was nothing as important as vanquishing the being (he couldn't really call him a man) that murdered his parents, except getting the best of Snape. When Quirrell died he didn't think of it, just chalked it up to getting involved in the wrong crowd—unfortunate but ultimately necessary. Now his is another name on an ever-growing list of casualties, none of which seem justifiable. He would have liked to be able to mourn Cedric properly, but instead was thrust back into the Muggle World, where no one knew his fallen friend or cared about why his death troubled Harry. Instead he is plagued with nightly dreams and a steady stream of guilt. He would have liked to be able to mourn Sirius in any capacity, but his desire for revenge was quickly replaced by reluctant acceptance of his fate, so any thought of his much loved godfather is followed by his own impending sense of doom. Too tedious and melodramatic for his taste, quite frankly. Yet it is now his life, and like it or not, it will happen.  
  
Sixteen was supposed to be an angsty year, but he thinks he has redefined the term. 


	4. The Darkest Night Of All

Part Three: The Darkest Night of All  
  
How could I ask/how could I say/the things I need to/you'd go away  
  
The secret eventually comes out, but it is completely by accident. There are many things he can blame, mainly the thin, useless curtain that surrounds his bedchamber, as it is not soundproof. A particularly frightening nightmare in which Voldemort kills his parents, Cedric, and Sirius over and over again in front of him causes him to shout incoherently into the night, frightening Ron and causing him to awake Harry. Unfortunately, in his semi-awake state, he mutters "I'll kill you like the prophecy says."  
  
Not the best way to clue your friends in on your fate, but in retrospect it seems as good as anything.  
  
When he is fully aware of his surroundings, he finds Ron pale faced and open jawed at his bedside.  
  
"What do you mean, 'like the prophecy says'? What aren't you telling us Harry?" Ron said quietly, so no one else in the room could hear. He manages to convince his red haired friend to go back to bed, promising to explain in full detail when he and Hermione are both present to hear the explanation.  
  
The next day they sit on his bed while the others are off at breakfast. Their eyes are upon him, the concern burning holes in his willpower.  
  
"Harry?" Ron questions, offering a rough pat on the shoulder as comfort. "We're here for you, all right? Just let us know what's going on."  
  
"If I tell you, you have to leave me alone. You can't speak to me, or help me with work. Nothing." His voice shakes on the first words, and steadily increases with strength. He watches as their faces distort, becoming upset. He knows this is the right thing, though they'll never see it the right way.  
  
"You're mad if you think we'll do that," Hermione hisses. "We love you, you idiot."  
  
"If you want to know, you'll do what I ask. You have to promise me. If you really love me, you'll do this. You'll do this for me. Please."  
  
"Fine," Ron whispers hoarsely, and he grips Hermione's hand.  
  
"The prophecy... there's more to it than I let on. I was chosen, in a manner of speaking. This didn't have to be my fate. But that doesn't matter. Voldemort knew his greatest enemy would be born in July to parents who had defied him three times. That's why he came after me, but even he didn't catch all the details. By trying to kill me he cursed me. If I don't kill him, he'll never die. And if I'm alive, he'll be dead." Hermione begins to open her mouth, but he holds up a hand to silence her. "Not a word," he demands. "I'm a murderer. I will be, at least. No one can help me, because this is my problem to deal with." He smoothes out the edge of his robes with trembling fingers, and pushes his glasses up on his nose. "Go now."  
  
"Harry, I don't..."  
  
"Go!" he bellows. He turns his back, but watches their reflections in the mirror as Ron gently guides her out of the room, all the while staring back towards him. He fights the urge to run after them, to beg them to fight beside him. He tells himself he is doing it for them. They need to live, and he needs to do this. 


	5. This Street That Man This Life

Part Four: This Street That Man This Life  
  
This life has its victories/but its defeats tear so viciously—Cowboy Junkies  
  
One week later, Ron and Hermione have yet to speak to him. They wait for him in the common room before classes and meals, sit beside him while they complete homework, and travel to Hogsmeade without a word. He is pleased that they refuse to abandon him while complying with his wishes. It's a small victory, but enough to give him hope that perhaps there is life after he fulfills his duty.  
  
The routine continues on, and he thinks it might last for good until dinner one evening. He's poking at his shepherd's pie when the pain hits, so unexpected that when he tries to rest his head on the table, it lands smack in the middle of his plate. He doesn't exactly care, because by then he's screaming at the top of his lungs. He falls backward only to be caught by Ron, who gently lays him down while Hermione waves her hands up and down as she frantically explains the situation to the newly arrived Professor Dumbledore. He leans over and retches underneath the table, the bile bitter on his tongue. He hears the thunderous roar of footsteps as they race away from the scene. He can't blame them. Finally the pain subsides enough that he is lying on his back. He feels cool fingers wiping the food from his face, and a loud gasp.  
  
"What?" he mumbles. He tries to put his hands on his forehead in a lame attempt to alleviate some pain, but someone is holding him down.  
  
"Fetch Professor McGonagall immediately," he hears Dumbledore whisper to Hermione. "Tell her it is happening."  
  
"What? Professor, this is my fate," he lets out a whimper, and blushes furiously. The pain was worse than ever before, but he tries to pride himself on strength. He has nothing else left.  
  
"Your scar, Harry...it's...it's burning black," Ron fumbles.  
  
"I didn't think it'd be so soon," Dumbledore explains as he helps him sit up. "I meant to explain it to you, but..."  
  
"It doesn't matter now," he snaps, pulling away from his friends. "Where?"  
  
"You know." Harry wants to reply crudely, but he finds that he does indeed know exactly where he is supposed to be. He runs his hand through his hair, then runs to his room. He grabs his wand and looks in the mirror. His scar is indeed black, darker than midnight. He refuses to stare, just turns away and walks out the door, into a mass of people.  
  
He sees Dumbledore and Ron and Hermione and Professor McGonagall and Lupin, and the faces stretch on and on and on until they all blur together. He shakes his head.  
  
"This is my battle. My fate." My defeat, he thinks silently.  
  
"Do you really think Voldemort would appear without his Death Eaters?" Dumbledore says gently. "We're coming. Now go."  
  
He begins to walk, though he doesn't know the way. He knows he'll end up there, that somehow it is not far. They traipse behind him, but he refuses to acknowledge them. He can't help but feel responsible for leading them into death and despair. He wants to beg them all to go away. He doesn't, and when part of him feels relieved, a bigger part knows that in needing them, he is already partly defeated. He doesn't care. 


	6. Glory

Part Five: Glory  
  
Time flies/and then no need to endure anymore/time dies  
  
They arrive sooner than he expected. He does not recognize his surroundings, and no one seems to be there. The army sorts themselves behind him, and when the rustling dies down, he throws back his head and shouts out words in Parseltongue, demanding his enemy to come forth. He cannot recall what they are, but they seem to work. Black figures apparate quickly, hooded so he cannot see their faces. He shakes his head, more to fight the nausea quickly swelling in his stomach than to acknowledge the enemy.  
  
He feels a rush of cold, and he knows that Voldemort has entered the room. He raises his eyes to face his foe. The face before him is exactly like the one burned into his brain: white and snakelike with smoldering red eyes. It is the face that murdered countless people. It is the face that may murder him. The mouth opens and begins to hiss.  
  
"Shut up!" he blurts out. "This was never about words. Let's get down to it, shall we?" He hears a gasp from his side (he presumes it to be Ginny, but refuses to check), then a hastily muttered curse and a shining red light hits a Death Eater. The battle begins.  
  
He is not aware of the war surrounding him, as he tirelessly focuses on the murder he was destined to commit. It seems futile, as he shields countless curses and wonders what miracle could pull the events in his favor.  
  
He is quite horrified to discover it's not a miracle at all.  
  
It isn't until Voldemort turns away from him that he notices everyone lying motionless on the ground behind him. Everyone except Albus Dumbledore. The wicked gleam in his opponent's eye grows as bright as the sun, so bright it is painful to see. He knows what is about to happen before it takes place, yet he remains motionless. Dumbledore does not raise his wand, but looks at Harry as the green jet of light takes away the last bit of light left in his eyes. He feels the pain in his scar return with brute force, and falls to his knees. He can't help but feel that he's failed everyone.  
  
Suddenly, he is on his feet. He figures it's a curse, but Voldemort is unmoving. He's moving his mouth, shouting words he does not know. His wand is swishing through the air, and orange light fills the room.  
  
Just as quickly everything is black, and as he falls to the ground he assumes it's the end. 


	7. In The Gloaming

Part Six: In the Gloaming  
  
What had been could never be/it was best to leave you thus, dear  
  
He wakes up two full weeks later at St. Mungo's, with Ron and Hermione at his beside. They are sleeping when he first opens his eyes, her head on Ron's shoulder, his arm draped protectively around her shoulders. By the time he blinks they both are stirring as if they can sense him. He finds himself turning his head away.  
  
"Harry," Hermione whispers, her eyes bright. She squeezes Ron's knee and he gives Harry a grin before running for a healer.  
  
"It's over then, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes. You defeated him again."  
  
"Who?" He asked weakly, his voice raspy from lack of use.  
  
"Harry, I don't think..."  
  
"Who!" He insists on knowing who perished in the battle, which should have been his and his alone, but Hermione purses her lips and does not speak another word. Ron comes with the healer soon after, and the two are rushed from his room as the portly woman bustles about, muttering under her breath about 'poor souls' and 'incredible damage'. After swallowing an obscene amount of potions (there were twenty or so before he lost count) Ron and Hermione re-enter.  
  
"Glad to see you awake, Harry. Hermione and I were very worried 'bout you."  
  
"I know."  
  
"You did it. You defeated him."  
  
"But what do I do now?"  
  
"I don't know what you mean."  
  
"That was my life, you guys. That's all I had to live for—so Voldemort would die. He dies, I live, and now there's nothing. I never finished classes, and I can't go back and get gawked at by knob-headed kids who think I'm a hero. I only had one purpose. I think I got the raw end of the goddamn deal."  
  
"Harry..."  
  
"Just get out." After they make no motion to leave, he screams the command at them, causing Hermione to leave in tears and Ron following her.  
  
He asks that no one be permitted to see him, and spends the next two weeks staring at the plain white ceiling and wishing it would fall down on top of him.  
  
When he is well enough to leave, he does so quietly. He doesn't want anyone around him, though he knows he is no longer dangerous to be around. There is just too much death and destruction. He has to get away. When he was ten years old, Harry Potter discovered he was a wizard. He thought about a life away from the Dursley's, a life he might have had with his parents. He thought about friends, spells, and mild adventures. Seven years later he is wiser and powerful, but the life he wanted and desired had been destroyed long before his time by an incomplete prophecy and a power hungry tyrant. He doesn't want to rebuild atop the wreckage—he wants to leave it and start a life on regular solid ground. He leaves quietly, writing hasty messages for his two best friends, Lupin, and Hagrid before he embarks on the next phase of his life.  
  
Oddly fitting, he begins his journey alone. 


	8. Epilogue

Epilogue: Could We Start Again Please?  
  
She clutched his hand tight, her head resting gently on his shoulder as the opposite arm knocked lightly on the large wooden door in front of them.  
  
"I'm so nervous," she whispers, with nary a trace of her French accent.  
  
"You're nervous? I left these people a note ten years ago and virtually disappeared. I think I might win."  
  
"Perhaps. I still love you, I guess." She brushes a kiss against his cheek and he reluctantly smiles. It's impossible to be mad at her, and lord knows he's tried a thousand times.  
  
The smile goes away when Hermione Granger-Weasley opens the door and faints. The tiny redheaded girl behind her begins to shriek "Daddy!" uncontrollably, and soon he sees Ron thundering down the stairs, stopping dead when he sees his wife on the ground and his former best friend standing at the door.  
  
"'Lo, Ron. It's been a bit longer than I expected since the last time I saw you. Perhaps we should revive Hermione." The old friend nods at his words, and motions for them to enter.  
  
Once Hermione is awake and the young girl (her name, he discovers, is Lucy) quiets down, he introduces his guest.  
  
"My wife," he says, and she gives them a shy grin. "Madeleine Potter."  
  
"It used to be Parole," she offers, and he gives her hand a light squeeze.  
  
"French, right? You must have gone to Beauxbatons," Hermione has fixed her glare upon the new woman, as if she doesn't approve. Harry can't help but shake his head at Ron, who shrugs his shoulders and rolls his eyes at his wife.  
  
"Oui."  
  
"Why don't we all take a seat in the kitchen, have some tea?" Ron seems to be growing wary of Hermione's intentions.  
  
"That'd be lovely," he answers quickly. Hermione finally smiles at the new woman, and gestures for them to come into the kitchen. Lucy clings to her leg viciously.  
  
"She's not normally this possessive. I think she's a bit shocked about my fainting spell."  
  
"It's understandable, I suppose."  
  
"Harry, where have you been for ten years? I mean, it's lovely to see you again, and Ron and I were so worried, but you're here and you're fine and you're married and I just don't know..."  
  
"Stop, dear," Ron said gently. "Harry didn't come here to jerk us around. He came to talk, and he'll do that if he gets a chance."  
  
"I guess I should start at the beginning. I..." his voice stalls. Madeleine rubs a spot between his shoulders, and he instantly calms. "I didn't know what to do with myself after defeating Voldemort. I mean, I didn't even have my scar anymore. Everything that defined me was gone. I went to Mrs. Figg's after I got released. Just to get away, you know. But even being in England...I was so sure I was going to go crazy. I went to Fudge, discreetly. I asked for a job in another country, filing papers or whatever. I didn't care. He actually helped me out, got me a job in a small, covert French division. It was anti-muggle security of some sort, bewitching certain objects to do things...not difficult. I worked on my own, no one bothered me."  
  
"Until me," Madeleine offers.  
  
"Yeah. Until her, five years after I began working there. She needed some paperwork I forgot to file. Asked me nicely and all that. I told her to bugger off."  
  
"And then I told him off. That I didn't appreciate his rotten attitude, and that if he wanted to keep his job he should respect his co-workers."  
  
"So I asked her to dinner."  
  
"He said it'd been forever since someone treated him like a normal person, and that he'd like to get to know me better. I said okay, if he gave me the paperwork."  
  
"Madeleine didn't realize I was the infamous Harry Potter. She'd only looked at my last name, and the scar was gone, so she had no way of identifying me. At the restaurant we had a great conversation about Hogwarts and Beauxbatons. I didn't say anything that could give me away, per se. So we agreed to another date. It went on for a month like that. Finally she just asked me why the scar went away. And I ended up telling her everything."  
  
"Feminine wiles. Gets him every time."  
  
"She didn't judge me. She didn't care. She said that she thought she could love me, if I gave her the chance. We've been together ever since."  
  
"And you're here, now, because? After all this time, Harry! And without a word as to what happened to you...I thought I'd go mad sometimes. You just decide to return on a whim, I suppose. What do you want from us?"  
  
"Madeleine's pregnant," he whispers, then continues before he can see if they reacted. "And I realized that the people I wanted to share this news with most were here. I know it's unfair to ask but...could we be friends again? I know things won't be exactly like they were, but I..."  
  
"You stupid git. Of course we will!" Ron hollers, nearly knocking over his tea in his haste to stand up. "You've had a rough life, but we'll never desert you. We promised you that once, and we meant it in every sense of the word."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Of course. Don't be daft."  
  
"Okay. So you met a nice girl and had a proper courtship. I assume you had a nice, normal wedding."  
  
"A nice normal elopement."  
  
"Better than our fiasco. Hermione, you do tell it better."  
  
They sit there for hours catching up, and made a dinner date later in the week. The friendship Harry felt he ruined was alive and well, as the bond created in their youth proved to be unbreakable. Promises kept no matter what. A happy ending to the tale of the boy who lived. 


End file.
